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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136040">The Waves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivial/pseuds/vivial'>vivial</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Another Side, Another Story [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Porn, F/M, Marcel is a little meanie, Marcel is a sub obviously., Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:02:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivial/pseuds/vivial</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The words are stuck in her throat, and he kisses her hungrily, as she comes in his arms. Even that, she does quietly, gripping at his skin and then letting go. So few words, so much she aches to say.</i>
</p><p>A sidefic to What Yet Lingers, with Marcel and Dorothea spending some quality time together. Because why not?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marcel Delamare/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Another Side, Another Story [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Waves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't know why I wrote this, I just had this idea and just spurred this fic at midnight last night lmao<br/>This fic is set during the TAS events in What Yet Lingers, which I haven't posted yet lol so maybe spoilers? I don't know.<br/>I'm not good at smut, or tagging smut for the record, sorry about that.<br/>Another fic for the Dorotheaverse lmao</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"He and I are closer than friends.</em><br/>
<em>We are enemies linked together.</em><br/>
<em>The same sin binds us."</em><br/>
<strong>Oscar Wilde.</strong>
</p><p>Dorothea is not a quiet woman.</p><p>Everything about her is loud and explicit, nearly a cacophony to Marcel, who has always been in love with silence. Whenever she has something to say - which is all the time - she is witty, sharp, sassy; he doesn’t let her know, but he is bewitched by her skill to blend in. She thrives off being forgettable; as pretty as she is, Dorothea rarely leaves a trace of her existence, exuding an air of unimportance and lack of intelligence, of meek nature and utter shyness, batting her eyelashes and having men think she is too prudish to be worth their time.</p><p>“Slowly.” She says, again. He knows by now that she just loves saying that, but he indulges her all the same. A lot can be accomplished by catering to her simple needs, she is a simple woman after all.</p><p>They lock eyes when she speaks, her hands resting on the back of his head placed between her legs. The tips of her fingers are always cold, but everything else is burning hot; he can’t tell whether from the sex or her fever, her knee still patched up, clumsily placed over his shoulder. When she speaks, her tongue brushes softly against her teeth and he can’t tell if she does it on purpose or not - with Dorothea it’s always hard to tell what is intentional and what is natural - but it makes him ache, hard against the mattress.</p><p>Dorothea never makes him feel inexperienced, even though he was much like that when they first met. He never had much interest in having company, and the few he had required very little from him and they often never returned, but she did. Persistent, as if he was an impossible equation she ached to solve, she had a relentless patience with his clumsiness, never openly addressing it or making him feel unsure about it, instead teaching and guiding him even when he was proving to be difficult. She understood how he worked, how his head processed things in methods, and so she made the whole thing a method he could understand.</p><p>He is on her now, in her, his hands intertwining their fingers, his mouth kissing hers, sharing her taste. They lock eyes again, as their hips move clumsily at first, then find a common rhythm; he holds her patched knee up to adjust their position, and she gently touches his chest, her fingers running down his stomach, then grabbing at his hips. Normally, they would do this while seated, but her broken and patched up knee makes it difficult, so she has to lie down and he can tell she is frustrated.</p><p>Gently, he pushes her hair away from her forehead, thrusting in the rhythm that her hands on his hips dictates. She has a commanding nature in that attitude that amuses him, a hare trying to become a fox, a meek little robin trying to be a bird of prey. Somewhere in the room her daemon chirps as his owl pins him down; he knows they are not separated, but somehow Dorothea hides the fear, pain and pleasure they are both feeling. She doesn’t like to let Marcel see how easily he can affect her.</p><p>She urges him to go slow again, every thrust making a noise that nauseates him. Suddenly everything in the room is too much, too intense. Dorothea is used to this behavior by now, so she takes her hands away from his hips and pulls him in an embrace to soothe him. Marcel spends a few minutes with his face buried in the pillow, next to her, and her hands stroke him gently, his hair and his back, as she whispers in his ears, in French and English mixed up, deviant words enough to make him blush. Kindness mixed with desire.</p><p>There is a note of worry in her voice when she asks him if he would like to stop. He mumbles a negative. He loathes her pity.</p><p>“Good. I like when you’re inside me.” She whispers, half drunk in her arousal, her teeth brushing against his earlobe.</p><p>The words have him laughing on the pillow, her cheeky attitude most of all, making his body vibrate over hers while she laughs too, but the contact of her mouth and teeth to his skin makes his cock throb and he realises he is still inside her.</p><p>She tells him to take his time, when she sees him standing again, adjusting their position and getting inside her again. She gasps quietly through her kind words and he likes it because her kindness unnerves him.</p><p>It does not match the woman he speaks to, before and after sex, a woman whose files had at least three deaths and countless operations that were dangerous and had left wounded men in hospitals for weeks. Resting on her elbows, looking at him with her chin raised, Dorothea’s kindness does not match the gaze she has now: obscure, indecent, powerfully demanding, obscene. An hour ago she was whimpering from the pain in her knee, wide-eyed and soft-spoken, now her energy is considerably different.</p><p>She often leaves the bedside lamp turned on, a vibrant and delicate orange light dimly lighting them up in their intimacy. It makes her skin saturated and glittery, drops of sweat all over her.</p><p>“You enjoy watching me.” She mocks him every time, and he indulges her with a grin. Everything there is to like about her, in his immodest opinion, is not visible physically. Light or no light would make no difference, but he likes to see her think she is right in her assessment of him.</p><p>Marcel runs his fingers over her neck, brushing away a lock of hair that got stuck to her sticky skin. She is burning hot, and yet again he can’t tell whether it is the fever or the pleasure, but he does not care. She had requested him, insistently, for this and so she must know her own limits. How much pain she can take is none of his business, her own words to him, no less.</p><p>His moves are steady now, as he leans against her, his forehead touching hers, their breaths on each other’s face. Her slightly crooked eyebrows align with his, her parted lips as she moans quietly against his face. They lock eyes again, but she closes hers quickly, her teeth biting her lower lip as she rests her cheek against his shoulder, pressing her chest to his. He grins, because she does this every time she is close to her climax and it is a futile attempt to hide from him.</p><p>“What you see is what you get.” She teases him, often, glass in hand and a glitter in her eyes of someone who is hiding something.</p><p>Marcel reads people skillfully, observant, meticulous, yet with Dorothea there is a struggle because she is an open book, and most of what she portrays is fake, artificial. She manipulates herself to be seen or perceived as someone particular and she does it well, too well. But in his arms, open, vulnerable, he can see everything clearly and it scares her, he can tell. She thinks the secret is in the eyes, but he sees everything he wants to see in every movement she makes, every gasp and groan and moan she lets out.</p><p>There are insecurities and fear, and frustration and a desire to control that she shuts down or twists into sexual attitudes. Even her affection is visible, as he thrusts stronger and harder into her, holding her hands down against the bed. She is trapped now, nowhere to look but him, and he delights himself in her attitude.</p><p>Dorothea jerks her head back, her jawline clear for him and the skin is smooth and wet with sweat and he aches just thinking about scratching, biting, kissing her. Her legs lock him in place and he knows she is in pain from her wounded knee, but she doesn’t care and he believes that he should not care either.</p><p>He can almost see it, the way her body struggles to tell him things, the things she doesn’t say. It builds on her stomach and he resists the urge to let go of one of her hands to touch it, and it climbs through her chest to her throat and she chokes on her words, as always. <em>How she prefers to die than admit defeat, it is as admirable as it is pointless,</em> he thinks.</p><p><em> Strength of spirit, </em> his daemon had assessed her, and right she was. Dorothea compensated all her flaws by her undying willpower, a strong sense of self. Marcel takes pleasure in knowing he is one of the few people who can actually break her will. More than that, it amuses him how he had spent so much time trying to figure out how to understand her, only for the solution to be so simple. It shouldn’t have surprised him, of course; she was a simple woman after all. Had he known all it would take was fucking her, he would have done it sooner.</p><p><em> I love you, I love you, I love you. </em> She screams with her hands and her mouth and her eyes, the way she moves her hips to his rhythm, eager and then slowly. Begging him for more without saying a word.</p><p>He knows how she feels, but he has no hopes of hearing it out loud, but here he can have it in an unique way. He can almost see the shame in her eyes, how easy she is, to understand, to see, to hear. How quickly she breaks under such a trivial thing. The words are stuck in her throat, and he kisses her hungrily, as she comes in his arms. Even that, she does quietly, gripping at his skin and then letting go. So few words, so much she aches to say.</p><p>Her body relaxes under his, her breathing trying to settle itself down. Normally, by now, she would finish him off with her hands or her mouth, but she cannot kneel, so he finishes inside her. Another thing for her to worry about.</p><p>“Say it.” He says, lying beside her. She turns to face him, her dark hair away from her face, her neck glowing under the warm light. He runs his tongue there, grabbing her shoulder and he chuckles when she gasps.</p><p><em> I love you, I love you, I love you. </em> Her eyes say it now, loud and clear, with a jolt of fear as she is on the brink of betraying herself. Her daemon sings her distress, somewhere nearby, announcing to the room that she is very close to a point of no return. It’s a warning. <em> Easier to make her come, </em> Marcel thinks, his hand on her neck, steering her face so he could look her in her eyes.</p><p>“I don’t know what you mean.” She says, willfully, naive, shy. He is disgusted, but he doesn’t back down, instead touching foreheads with her, breathing in slowly, eyes closed. His finger plays with her nipple, hard and sensitive, and he heeds the pattern of her breathing as she is getting aroused again.</p><p>“Just say it. I can see the words building inside of you, right here.” He kisses the crook of her neck and Dorothea tries to move away from his touch, but the hand on her neck keeps her in place. “Say it.”</p><p>He smirks against her lips and she kisses him as retaliation. Her hands grip at his hair, pulling him closer with strength. He can see she is struggling with his attitude, and it pleases him. He doesn’t need to do this, he knows, she is already an ally, even a friend maybe, someone willing to exchange favours. There is nothing to gain by taunting her like that, but he enjoys it very much.</p><p>“You’re torturing her.” His daemon thinks to him. “And you’re enjoying it.”</p><p>He is, very much so. There was something exhilarating about pushing her buttons, the ever kind and gentle Dorothea, with her sweet face and smooth cunt, playing fool and temptress at once. Always way in over her head.</p><p>Everything about her was fake and handmade to suit her agenda, <em> freedom fighter </em> as he mocked her often. <em> Self-righteous little bitch, </em> he had thought more often than not, watching her now as she moved him to his back and sat on top of him. It unnerves him how easily she could do everything she did without getting caught. As ordinary as she is, the fact she still outwits him on many fronts is humiliating.</p><p>Behind her kindness and gentleness and morality is a liar and a scoundrel, he observes her face in the dark. She smiles, provocative, but the feeling of a caged animal is in her eyes. She senses a trap and is prepared to run, metaphorically at least. Smooth, clever, <em> sneaky </em> Dorothea; her thighs clench against his body as he reaches for her clitoris with his thumb. He hears her deep breath and chuckles, but he is hard again from the contact and the way she looks, inside his head, when he imagines himself cornering her with her lies. <em> Murderess. </em></p><p>That’s his favourite adjective for her; his cock throbs when he remembers the last time he had said that to her. She had been on her knees, in the archive room at <em> La Maison Juste</em>. She looked at him with outrage over the word, but there were no hard feelings over the fact he had come on her blouse. He could still feel the slap on his cheek.</p><p>“Say it, Dorothea.” He feels her hands as she takes his cock in her hand. She grins, but her eyes say something else. “I promise I won’t mock you.”</p><p>He means it. He has no desire to make fun of her feelings, but instead he wants to crush her under his hold and break her into pieces. What he would do afterwards, he has no idea. Sometimes he is so often like his sister, acting on impulse and not really thinking things through.</p><p><em> I love you, I love you, I love you. </em> Dorothea seems to soften over that promise, stopping halfway as she puts him inside her again, gasping softly as she leans over him. Her kiss is wet and hungry and furious, then soft and gentle, the two worlds clashing inside her. Her eyes are hazy now, once she breaks away from the kiss and moves slowly to feel him inside her.</p><p>Her hands caress his chest and she looks broken, exhausted, lost in her feelings and sensations. She smiles, then, sweet and kind and pure. <em> Genuine. </em> He has her now, he thinks, fully; in his delight, he grabs her hips and thrusts harder inside her. She chuckles at his renewed energy, while he almost immediately resents the fact he has no idea what they’ll do now that his fun has ended. He rests against the pillow when she leans to kiss him again.</p><p>“Never, Marcel.” Dorothea whispers, as she rides him slow and steady, a smile on her face. Naive, gentle, kind, witty, wicked. So much nuance at once. He smiles, against his own will, grabbing her hips tight and following her rhythm. <em> You’ve won</em>, the gesture says and they both know, <em> I’ll do as you say</em>. Her face is delightful now, amused and vile at the sight of his loss.</p><p>Liar. Scoundrel. Thief. <em> Murderess. </em></p><p>“<em>Never.</em>”</p>
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